Laundry Day

11/11/2011

There is something peaceful for me about the idea of doing the laundry, and I have come to understand that I’m not the only one. My mom once gave me Robert Fulghum’s book “Everything I Needed To Know I Learned In Kindergarten” and Mr. Fulghum feels the same way. The cycles of dirty and clean, rinse and spin, wash and dry, alpha and omega… it does sort of feel like you’re an agent of order fighting chaos and entropy! And when you have laundry for four people to do, it does make things a little more interesting.

Of course, I have the most clothes, and there are other reasons besides the whole cosmic sensation of rightness, that I do the laundry. Sure, it helps out my mom too. She has arthritis and me being upstairs all day, willing to leap up from my bedroom desk chair, run downstairs, down the hall to the kitchen and into the laundry room, only to do the mad shuffle of dry clothes to basket, wet washed clothes to drier, sorted dirty clothes to washer, only to carry baskets of cleaned laundry upstairs for folding… well… it’s sort of a relief for her.

For me, it means I can wash all the stupid slutty outfits Kari, Badd Barrett, Mark, Ellen, and Brandon keep forcing me to wear on assignments without commentary from curious or outraged parents. Seriously, try explaining to your mother why there is a shirt in your laundry that proudly declares the wearer as a “Sex Instructor” with the added tag line “first lesson free”. That’s not the sort of thing that moms like to see their daughters wearing.

On the flip side, unlike most fathers, I don’t think my dad would mind too much.

Most laundry days are sedate except for the up and down movement. I usually spend a lot of each Friday writing at the computer, listening for the tell tale beep of the dryer finishing. Like every day though, even Laundry day, I have to follow a simple rule, one I’m sure all of you are familiar with; NHPS Rule #1.

I’m going to admit that I think I’ve gotten a bum rap on this whole nympho humiliation pain slut Rule #1 thing. The rule states quite clearly that the NHPS is to keep her pussy stuffed with cock or a sex toy or some sexually arousing object, so that she stays wet and ready at all times. Okay, I can see that. I can handle that. But why are all my various masters and mistresses so intent on using Rule #1 to aggravate my sexual condition? Why is “wet and ready” not enough? Why does it always have to be “wet, ready, and sexually desperate to the point where she’s willing to fuck a cactus to get off!”

Seriously! If I’m wearing the ben wa balls, half the time I have to have the vibrating anal beads in my ass and on. Or sometimes the butterfly clitoral vibrator tormenting my clit. Or if it’s the vibroballs, those two golf ball sized spheres have to be rolling and shaking around inside me. Never mind the fact that just HAVING two almost egg sized objects in my pussy is more than enough to keep me wet. Oh no… they have to be ON too. Oh, and just for fun, let’s go ahead and vary the settings, just to make sure Breanne doesn’t get used to the low setting. Or how about the six inch vibrator? That was inserted two days ago, on low, and held in place with DUCT TAPE! Do you know how many times I came? SEVEN! And half way through the day Master Barrett told me that every additional orgasm would result in my self-punishment with a rubber band to the soles of my feet!

I’m STILL limping.

Kari isn’t any nicer. She’s ordered me to wear my RVP on occasion, with varying settings, so that I can barely function. You try running errands, or doing chores when every hour, for fifteen minutes, you have to turn on the vibrator and rotation functions, to high power. And your mistress tells you “by the way, don’t cum!”

Yeah right.

Laundry day’s toy is especially cruel. No vibrating of course, or spinning, but that’s only because on laundry day I’m supposed to wear my Husky dildo. Wait… why did I say “wear?” Maybe it should be “bury?” Or maybe “implant” is the right word. Oh. Forget that. I know the right word.

Fuck.

That’s right. “FUCK”. I have to FUCK the Husky dildo. Repeatedly. Without using my hands. My Husky dildo is simply a nine inch long two inch wide rubber cock, complete with a half set of balls and a flat bottom (the better to place on a chair). I admit I like the feel of it and frankly this is the largest dildo I can comfortably take. Notice I didn’t say that it was the largest dildo I own, because it’s not. But I can handle nine inches without feeling like I’ve been stuffed and then impaled on a fence post. Of course the Husky dildo does have the same problem that my largest phallic toy has. It won’t stay in by itself.

Actually, very little will. A woman’s vagina isn’t exactly intended to permanently harbor a wide selection of sex toys. Let’s face it: it’s slippery in their, soft, warm, wet, and designed to caress and lightly squeeze and stimulate the surface of one thing: cock. It’s not meant to hold long penis shaped objects on its own. Try it! You’ll see! Take a vibrator, or a cucumber, masturbate with it (or have some fun and find your own NHPS and gently and erotically slip it inside her) and then stand up. See what happens. I’ll bet you that said cucumber falls out eventually.

So when I wear my Husky dildo, I have to wear something else to keep it in. Usually it’s a pair of panties over which I use tight shorts, or tight jeans to hold the full nine inches in my guts. It works well except sometimes if I get really excited during the day walking around stuffed, I can end up looking like I wet my pants. That’s very embarrassing. And it’s not like you can look chagrined and say “oh, that’s just pussy juice. I’ve got a nine inch rubber cock up there. You can understand, right?”

But on laundry day, thanks to Kari and what is now tradition, I don’t get the luxury of jeans or shorts. Oh no. I get to wear panties and a skirt. Skirts are nice. I love them. But for helping keep my Husky in? Worthless. And since I wear bikini cut hip hugger panties, there isn’t a lot of help there either. Kari knows this very well.

It’s not much of an issue if I’m sitting down of course. The dildo is rammed quite nicely up into my crotch, filling me simply and fully. Standing of course causes the Husky dildo to slide outward, until it’s caught by my panties. This usually means that three inches of cock are inside my pussy, while five inches are hanging out of me, stretching my cotton panties to the limit.

Try walking around like that sometime.

Of course the idea is for me to have get up frequently, and sit down just as much. This way I am consistently and constantly fucked all day, single penetrations and extractions that will no doubt aggravate and arouse me to the point where orgasm isn’t an option, it’s a necessity. So add up and down and in and out and “oh my fucking god I need to come” to that alpha and omega, wash and dry, spin and rinse shit that Robert Fulghum was talking about. Laundry takes on a whole new meaning when you’re trying desperately not to scream out loud in orgasmic bliss in front of your whole family.

But wait. Today it’s worse.

You see, I’m NOT allowed to cum. Kari’s orders of course. Oh no… I get to suffer, holding myself back, allowing desperation to slowly build inside me until one of two things happen. One, I manage to control my libido, eventually making it through laundry day and taking a freezing cold shower at the end. Or two, I explode like a naughty bad nympho humiliation pain slut and take my punishment like I was meant too.

Want to know what I really wonder? Why do they bother? They set me up to fail right from the beginning. Why? Why not just say, “oh, and by the way, I’d like you go and have yourself spanked a zillion times whether or not you cum.” Or maybe “I’d like you to put the alligator clamps on your nipples and clit, just because.” Why run me through this rigmarole? Well, I know why. It makes it more exciting. It builds tension inside me, knowing that there is a possibility, even if it’s a slim one, of escaping those punishments.

But what if I WANT those punishments?

Kari has told me that today, if I cum, then I have to remove the panties. This will make things much more difficult for me. Sure, I’ve gone commando before. It’s not that tough. But since the panties were the primary method for holding in the Husky dildo, it will mean that every time I stand I’ll need to clamp down, grit my teeth, and hold on for dear life.

And what happens if I drop the dildo? Simple. It goes back in, hard and fast, and then I have to go find someone, anyone, to spank me stupid, on the ass, with at least twenty strokes. Talk about awkward. It’s like that “walking the mall” assignment Master Barrett gave me two or three weeks ago.

Excuse me a moment. The washer just finished. I have to stand up now.



A little later…


I’ve been writing in between loads and let me tell you that writing erotica while stuffed with a nine inch dildo is quite… invigorating. It provides a certain amount of tactile stimulation, no doubt making me a better describer of some of the things in my tales. Of course, remembering what happened is sometimes just as arousing and I’m going to admit that right now, I’m pretty desperate. I’ve been downstairs three times now and I’ve stood and sat at least a dozen times. Each time I stand I feel the Husky dildo slide slowly out of me, like an unwilling lover interrupted mid-coitus. I waddle around, hoping that the dildo doesn’t slip out of my panties, until I can get back upstairs and plop down in my seat, ramming the rubber rod deeply back into my pussy.

It’s sort of hard to describe that single thrust. It’s powerful of course, but with no repeated movement, it is like this single caress, this massively powerful stimulator, that only fades after igniting the fires inside me. Or stoking them. I find myself contemplating standing up again, and then sitting down, fucking myself via the chair and gravity, two entities I’ve had sex with before, but never consciously. I tremble, resisting, my legs widening to the sides of the chair as I grind my pussy back and forth, merely wiggling on the post between my thighs. It is terrible. I want so much to cum. My panties are soaked. The sweet and musky scent of my need is rather pungent and the desire to press my fingers to my clit, lifting my skirt, is almost overwhelming. If Master Barrett were online right now, I’d beg for a clothespin. Flick Flick Flick.

Unfortunately, the rest of the tale is no longer available on our blog. But it is available in Breanne Erickson's "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 5" available in e-book format from fine booksellers. Also be sure to check out the BreanneApedia to get the full low down on everything Breanne!